


Marcus Powell: Crusader 
Regrets

by dairesfanficrefuge_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-08-27
Updated: 2000-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:43:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist/pseuds/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Regrets Parts 1-7 by Stephen Gunnell

_Marcus Powell: Crusader  
Regrets_

By Stephen Gunnell 

**_Disclaimer:_** this fic has been written using completely original characters of my own creation. They are mine. However, the concept of immortality and of the Highlander realm I do not own (if it is possible to own an idea) and to those of you who believe that you _can_ own an idea, then I admit that I make _no_ profit from this. So there. 

Okay end rant. 

What I would like to mention is that as this is my first piece of HL fanfic that you be as brutal and critical as possible with feedback. It will be greatly appreciated and I vow to reply to each comment. This way I can improve the writing which you guys will (hopefully) enjoy reading and make it more than it already is. 

If you want to set the right kind of mood for yourself as you read this, then listen to "Too Much Love Will Kill You" by Queen. _Then_ you will understand.   
  
---  
  
**Part 1**

London, England   
31st December 1999 

It was New Year's Eve. Most people were with their friends drinking, partying, and having a good time. But that was most people. And Marcus Powell was definitely not most people. 

So he stood on a street corner turning into one of many dark and seemingly endless alleys. He looked up at the night sky shrouded with clouds and occasionally peppered by coloured explosions. He felt the chill breeze of night; shivering slightly as he buttoned his leather raincoat as far as it could go before it threatened to cut off the circulation. Rubbing his hands in a vain attempt to restore a modicum of warmth he waited. 

Waited for a man who would not come. 

_Stop being so cynical,_ he told himself. _Jess said this would be the spot, so this will be the spot. Jess hasn't let me down yet. Besides, it sounds like the kind of trick Kofidis would attempt to pull off._

A group of revellers staggered past him, joked about his appearance and demeanour. He just shrugged it off. He watched them continue on their drunken way. 

_Little do they know how few people are actually prepared to defend these streets for them while they enjoy themselves. Do they have any idea how many people are watching these streets tonight? This is the prime time for any illicit activity – half the police force is at home or no longer cares and there are even fewer men like me patrolling streets like this._

Another reveller approached. Powell took notice of this man – he swaggered like a drunk does when he is _way_ over his limit, he slowly made his way toward the alley, hugging the shadows as though they somehow provided him comfort. That was his mistake. If he were _that_ drunk, he would not have been able to walk in such a straight and determined manner. He would have strayed off course and stuck to the lights if he had sense. 

Powell tried to see the man's face without advertising the fact. Conveniently, the pseudo-drunk was so deeply entrenched in the shadows that his features were shrouded in darkness. 

_That must be him._

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Powell stuck to the comfort of darkness and entered the alley. Bins crammed full of household waste lined the alley and added to the sense of disgust that was beginning to stir within Powell's mind. 

The supposedly drunken man seemed to have shrugged off the effects of his "intoxication" and was now hurrying down to the end of the alley which abruptly turned right. 

Powell was forced to slow his progress now. His quarry was frequently glancing behind him. 

_He must know I'm following him. Why else would he be this cautious? Only if he was running from somebody. Jess did say that Kofidis was scared of something. But what was so bad that it scared the hell out of him? He deals with scum every day of the week, he lives with it and works with it all the time. So why is he suddenly afraid?_

Powell ended this line of questioning as he approached the end of the alley. 

Something clicked. 

_Funny, Kofidis doesn't normally carry a gun. Better be on the safe side._

Powell unbuttoned the raincoat so it fluttered about in the breeze like some kind of modern cape. 

Rounding the corner he faced Kofidis. 

The short Greek man glared back at Powell with his customary sneer. His hands were empty. 

"You've got two minutes." 

"Aw, come on, Powell. Give us another chance. I ain't done nothing wrong." He put on that heavy Greek accent that was so bad it _had_ to be fake. 

Powell remained silent, and positioned himself so that he blocked the only way out. 

"I ain't done nothing. Now let me pass." He was getting frantic now, gesturing wildly. 

"Calm down, Kofidis." 

"How can I with you in the way?" 

"I suppose you have a point, but there's just one little problem . . ." 

"And that is . . ." 

"You." 

"Me?" now the little man was confused. 

Powell glanced around at the dirty walls and dingy sky, "What, is there an echo in here somewhere? Yeah. You." 

"So I'm your problem, how so." 

"Why don't you tell me." 

"So we're perhaps going to play cat and mouse all night? I ain't done nothing. Nothing you can prove." 

"Nothing I can prove." Powell repeated. He could tell that Kofidis was cursing himself now. 

"So tell me, what is it you've been up to?" 

Kofidis made one last attempt to barge past but Powell grabbed hold of his collar and hurled him to the ground. Standing over him, Powell engaged in his bad cop routine. 

"Let me phrase it so you understand. What. Are. You. Up. To." 

Playing the fool, Kofidis repeated, "What. I. Am. Up. To. Is. Quietly. Walking. The. Streets." Then he broke the routine and crouched slightly so that he could kick Powell. Caught off guard, he was hit directly behind his left knee. He got up just as Powell fell. "Since when has that been illegal?" 

Recovering from the injury, Powell leered at Kofidis. "Since you started dealing. That's when." 

Kofidis's face glazed over with an innocent expression, "Dealing? Whatever do you mean? In what?" 

"Don't play dumb with me." 

"Who's playing?" Kofidis was already running. 

_Dammit. Too careless by far. No time for regrets._

Powell gritted his teeth against the sting in his knee and took up pursuit. 

The bells began to ring. 

Kofidis had stopped. 

_What the hell is he doing? Sure, it may be a New Year now but he still has old crimes to deal with._

He soon caught up with him and realised he was staring at something just ahead of him. 

His head suddenly throbbed. 

A throb that could mean only one thing. 

Powell joined the peering contest and saw a tall man, at least six and a half feet tall. He was dressed in the classic underworld garb: raincoat, head bent down, dark black trousers slightly muddied about the ankles. 

_Must be his contact. Excellent. A double bust._

Powell reached deeper into his pocket and activated his mobile phone, began to dial his contact in the police. 

"Ah! Ilias! There you are, come walk with me." Shouted the man in a thick Spanish accent. 

Powell stopped mid-dial. 

_That voice. It can't be._

"And you brought a friend." The voice spoke fluent English with only the slightest trace of a Spanish accent. 

Kofidis looked back at Powell and again at the newcomer, he seemed to make a decision in his mind. 

Then he ran. 

The Spaniard looked directly at Powell with the expression of a man who did not care about much. 

"I told you we would meet again." 

_Dammit. I'm not ready. First rule: always fight on your terms._

On instinct he turned and ran back into the alley. 

_Am I completely stupid or do I just practice it? Second rule: never fight on instinct. Now I'm trapped. Okay, Marcus. Keep cool._

He rapidly scanned his surroundings and realised he was deeper into the hole than he realised. 

Another man, swathed in black, emerged from the shadows wielding an automatic. 

It didn't take a genius to realise that this psycho was smiling. 

He pulled the trigger. 

Powell was hurled onto the opposite wall and collapsed by a gathering of bins. 

Blood smeared the wall and mingled with the garbage. 

More bullets penetrated his defenceless hide.   
  
**Part 2**

Powell strained his hardest to glare at his foe, but it was to no avail. This time his strength was gone. His vision was fading. He knew that the second he passed out he would _not_ rise again. 

The bullets raged through his body one final time. 

The masked assassin laughed as Powell twitched once more. A hand placed itself onto the automatic. The assassin ceased the barrage. 

"I believe he is finished, amigo." 

The gunman nodded. 

"I will deal with the remains." 

"The Cry are grateful. Remember that now, _you_ owe _us._ " 

The automatic concealed itself once more. 

The Spaniard glared at him, "I will not forget." His gaze returned to the "corpse" in front of him. He reached into his raincoat . . .   
  
**Part 3**

Milan, Italy   
Summer, 1756 

A lone figure trailed its way along the winding road that led into the city of Milan. The sun scorched the figure's back to the extent that this person even considered pausing to rest in the shade. 

_I can't stop now. I've managed to walk further before, without stopping. Besides, I'm almost there._

So the figure soon found he was wandering the streets of Milan alone. He saw a grubby Italian (probably a drunk) staggering slowly towards him. 

The Italian greeted him. 

_Now this is rapidly becoming another of my mistakes. I've just trooped into a country, probably Italy . . . could still be Switzerland though . . . either way, and I haven't been here for . . . about a century or so. Okay, focus, it sounds like he's saying hello. Right then. He sure wants to be Italian._

"Hola!" 

_No, now he's confused. Anyway, isn't that Spanish? Okay . . . how about . . ._

"Bongiourno!" 

_Well that's a better response, but he's probably addled by drink, confused my accent, my misuse of language, or any of the above._

He managed a strained conversation for about half an hour that consisted mostly of hand gestures. But he did find out what he needed to know. 

_I should have guessed that the local ruler would live in the centre of things, in a huge castle they called "Castello Sforzesco." I suppose these Sforzesco's are running the place. All I need to do now is convince them that they need a new bodyguard . . ._

Astonished by the sheer majesty of this stone structure, he stood at the entrance, awaiting a guard to respond to him. _This_ time he had made sure he had listened carefully to several passers-by so he could get used to the language again. 

"Hello, there!" 

"What is it?" the gruff guard responded. 

"I request an audience with . . . with . . ." he lost track of his sentence when his head began to ache, just like it had all those years ago. 

_Not another one. Can't they just leave me alone?_

Looking beyond the soldier, he spotted a hideously dressed man. He wore one of those heavily ruffed shirts that _were_ in fashion about two hundred years ago, and he wore a scarlet and _lime_ sash from shoulder to waist. The trousers were even worse – they were an incredibly baggy combination of crimson and _purple_! 

The badly dressed immortal looked at the bedraggled Englishman. He spoke fluent Italian to the guard. "Leave us. I shall deal with this . . . this _man._ " 

Once the guard was gone, he continued, "I take it you are one of us." 

The dirty man smiled, "I guess so." 

"You're not trying to be amusing, are you?" 

"Is anybody laughing?" 

The Italian threw back his head and laughed. "You know something?" 

"Plenty, why?" 

He laughed some more. Now this guy was disturbing him. 

"You know what? I like you." He placed a hand on his shoulder and led him into the courtyard. "But I need to know _why_ you're here, otherwise my master may not like you too." 

Halting, he stared at the slightly taller Italian directly into his eyes, "I am Marcus Powell, sword for hire." 

That irritating smirk returned, "Oh really? I must say that is a rather grandiose title for one who . . ." he leaned closer and sniffed. " . . . Who smells like a pig." 

"You'd smell like this too if you just hiked here straight from France." 

"A lovely country, it is too. Anyway, I am Paulo de Vicenzo, captain of the Milano militia, master swordsman, and recommended advisor to the Visconti." 

"I thought it _I_ had the grandiose title?" 

"That is very true, but what brings you here? One doesn't make this king of trip unless one has business of great import, does one?" 

_Time to get my own back, methinks._

"Well, _one_ had discovered that being unable to die had certain . . . opportunities that most men would never see. _One_ decided that soldiering was a rather lucrative profession, and being a bodyguard was even more so. Would _one_ agree?" 

"So that's it." Powell thought that Paulo might be irked by his little parody, and if he was the better for him. "Purely motivated by profit. Not by a need to protect life or . . . the Gathering?" 

_The Gathering? What is he on about?_

Noting the confusion in Powell's eyes, Vicenzo continued, "You know, the _Gathering._ " 

"It doesn't matter how much you emphasise the word, Vicenzo. It still means nothing." 

"Please call me Paulo, Marcus." They paused in their stroll. "You do _know_ about your power . . ." 

_Well did I not just say that I was immortal, but I do see his point though . . ._

Powell nodded. 

" . . . And you _were_ trained . . ." 

"Brian _did_ tell me what I was, and he did explain a few things to me . . ." Vicenzo motioned for him to continue. " . . . Like how I couldn't die, and how if people knew they would fear me, so I had to keep quiet about it. He told me how we ought to stay in the background and never reveal our true selves . . . never tell anybody who . . . didn't know . . . or needed to." 

Vicenzo scratched his chin thoughtfully. "This . . . Brian. What kind of man was he?" 

Powell gazed down at the dirt. "Well . . . I kind of died in his arms, you see. He was a . . . what do you call them? A healer? 

"You mean a physician." 

"Yeah, a physician." Powell stumbled over the unfamiliar word taught to him in a foreign tongue. "You see, it was the Civil War at the time and we were at Naseby and . . . and . . ." he returned his gaze to Vicenzo. "And everybody and everything I held dear to me on that day was destroyed. 

"I couldn't bear it. My friends were dead, my cause was dead, but I had _lived_! Do you know what that could do to a man?" he implored the Italian, who only silently nodded. 

"All of us feel that loss the first time and it never becomes easier." 

" . . . So he helped me repress the memories, he told me what had happened, how I had been given a second chance. 

"But all I wanted was revenge. I wanted to avenge the deaths of everything I ever loved. I had to kill Cromwell. It had to have been my destiny, why else would I have been brought back?" 

Vicenzo was shocked. "You didn't act on this . . . did you?" 

Powell swallowed down a lump in his throat and nodded. "I tried when Brian and I arrived at my old home some time later and we saw that the village had been razed because they had supported the Crown during the war. 

"That was when we parted. I haven't seen him since." 

Vicenzo finished nodding, having listened to the opening chapter of Marcus Powell's biography. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Did he teach you anything else?" 

Powell shook his head. "Only how to survive and keep quiet about it." 

"Perhaps the latter, but most definitely not the former, especially if you don't know about the Gathering. What about swordplay, did he teach you how to use this?" He gestured toward the hilt of his rapier. 

"No. Being a . . . physician," he stumbled over the terminology again, "he had vowed to do harm. But, before I left, he _did_ tell me that if I ever got into a fight with others like us, I ought not to lose my head." Powell was beginning to regain his composure now. 

Vicenzo chuckled softly after that final remark. "I guess he meant that one literally." He began to shake his head again. "A real piece of work, that Brian seems to be. Clever and devious. Definitely devious. Taught you just enough to survive, but not enough if it came to a duel. Very clever indeed." 

What composure he had regained was lost just as quickly, "You mean he used me?"   
  
**Part 4**

Milan, Italy   
Summer, 1756 

Marcus Powell faced the older immortal and repeated himself, "You mean he used me?" then he simply stood there shaking his head. "No, I think not. He healed the sick and injured and expected no reward. He was a good man and I won't have you slandering his name." 

The words seemed to have quite an effect on the Italian. "I suppose that is fair enough. But he still must have been clever and devious in order to survive in his profession for so long. That, I suppose is a positive quality, and he _did_ teach you how to live and how to use your power. That in itself is far from useless. But if you are to survive the Gathering you need to learn how to use _this._ " He deftly withdrew his slender rapier. The rays of sunlight glistened off it like the piercing blades of lances. 

Powell stared at the magnificent sword dumbly. 

"Befits my title, does it not?" he pointed the tip at Powell and engaged in a series of cut and thrust manoeuvres. 

"Impressive." He breathed. 

"Could you please keep the awe factor in check? Because if you're going to do this _every time_ somebody whips out a half decent sword, you are not _going_ to keep that dirty little head of yours. So come on, let's see what you've got." 

"I know I'm no expert on swords, but aren't rapiers more of a cut and thrust weapon rather than the slashing effect we're in need of?" 

"That, English, is very true. But my choice of weapon is based on preference, you see, I am not in the business of head-hunting." Noting Powell's confusion, he elaborated further. "I have, however, had this sword personally made for me by the finest craftsmen in Milano and had it modified so that it has a stronger . . . bite to it." He winked at the younger immortal. "Just in case I really do need to prove a point. Anyhow, show me your blade." 

Powell fumbled with the dirt-encrusted pommel of his sabre; its tarnished edge cast a dull pallor to Englishman. 

Vicenzo was not impressed. "What is that . . . poor excuse for a sword?" 

Powell attempted to regain some of his lost pride. "I'll have you know that this . . ." he kissed the disgraceful hilt. "That this is a military issue sabre equipped to every officer in His Majesty's Cavaliers." 

A new smile crept across Vicenzo's lips. "Oh really, and the training you received . . . what about that?" 

"To begin with, we were taught by the royally appointed tutor and then after the training period we . . . kind of learnt as we went along." 

"This royally appointed tutor, he didn't happen to be a small, bearded man with a thick Irish accent?" 

Powell was shocked. "You know of him." 

"I know _of_ him. He tried that trick out on us a few years back. Only that time he was talking bad Italian and told us that he had taught the English Royal Family himself." He leaned closer to Marcus and winked once more. "But don't worry, we soon reminded him that King Charles of England was executed because he surrendered on the field of battle. Never heard from him again." 

The Englishman looked disappointed once more. "Why is it, that no matter what I do or where I go, I _always_ seem to get it done wrong?" 

The rapier pointed itself at Powell once more. "Not this time, Mr Powell. Not this time." 

Powell raised his sabre and prepared to defend himself. 

For Marcus Powell, mercenary for hire, the training had begun. Faced with a ludicrously dressed Italian swordsman who had decided to take it upon himself to train him, Powell had become intrigued as to why he had never before considered honing his skills. 

Then he remembered that Stewarts had been obsessed with protecting the sanctity of life. As a result of which, Stewarts had refused to even _carry_ a weapon let alone allow Marcus to travel with one during the five years that they had spent together. 

Powell shook the reverie from his head and focused on the lesson of the day: "Now then, the key to winning is in the Golden Rules." 

The two parried thrust after thrust until Vicenzo had Powell cornered behind a tree. "Number One: always fight on your own terms." He feigned a swipe that could have decapitated his pupil. 

Their combat continued, oblivious to the intense Mediterranean heat. 

Vicenzo executed a clean thrust that could have easily penetrated Powell's shoulder. Angered by this, Marcus recalled the cut and thrust moves from earlier, and pulled them off to startlingly good effect. 

That was until the Italian ducked a swipe and side stepped to the right Powell was off balance and had exposed himself to another potentially lethal blow. "Rule Number Two: never fight on instinct." 

The pair continued the sparring long into the afternoon. Powell was becoming increasingly tired and had made several critical errors, allowing Vicenzo to strike numerous blows on the trainee. 

Bearing the previous two rules in mind, Powell resumed a defensive stance and parried many of Vicenzo's potential hits, side-stepped a head shot, and came in low so he could slash his midriff. 

Spotting Powell's cunning move, Vicenzo took a step backward . . . and stumbled on an inconveniently placed rock. 

Taking the advantage, Powell feigned one of the decapitating blows that Vicenzo had so frequently used on him. Vicenzo grimaced, but that expression soon turned to one of satisfaction, as Powell reached out his left hand to help steady the Italian. 

Looking back at the outstretched hand, the grin returned. "And Rule Number Three: always know when you're beaten." He grabbed the hand and sheathed his sword. "Let us return inside. We have plenty of time for more training."   
  
**Part 5**

London, England   
December, 2000 

Police Constable Peterson acknowledged the message on his radio. "Understood. Peterson is on his way, over." 

The radio hissed more static at him prior to the reply. "Two squad cars will rendezvous shortly, over." 

He sighed. "Acknowledged." 

Returning the radio to its clip on his belt, Peterson geared himself to an alleyway near the Rose and Castle. 

_Better not be another damn hoax. Don't those jokers back at HQ have enough to deal with than send me out on some anonymous tip off on New Year's Eve._

He checked his watch. 

_Day, rather._  
  
**Part 6**

Kofidis panted heavily, throwing his weight against the lamppost, bathing himself in its warm orange glow. Despite the chill winter breeze, rivulets sweat had begun to bead down his forehead. 

_I can't leave him there. Not after all we've been through._

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a hand wielding a mobile phone. He seemed to suddenly realise he was holding it and swiftly hid it within the confines of his coat. 

_After all we've been through? What, you mean those cat and mouse games we've been playing at these past few years. All those attempts at getting me arrested, and all his trying to prove I was guilty of some crime or another. And I want to rescue that P.I. Am I completely crazy?_

Feeling the chill of night once more, he warmed his hands inside his coat pockets and slowly began to walk into the alley. 

_The_ alley. 

_Yeah, but even so,_ nobody _deserves to be gunned down by that guy and his mob. Even I thought twice about dealing with him._

His mind flashed back to the sound of gunfire. He cringed at the sheer thought of all those bullets tearing into, and then _out_ of a man's flesh. 

_He's probably dead by now, anyway. In that case, Mendes or whatever his name was will be gone and there's not gonna be anything . . . or anyone there to hurt me._

Deceived by his own twisted logic, Kofidis ran down the alley almost as fast as he had _before_ the bullets started to fly.   
  
**Part 7**

Madrid, Spain   
Spring, 1809 

Allegedly, Madrid was the highest point in Spain _and_ was supposed to be in the dead centre of it too. Allegedly. If there was one thing that Vicenzo had taught him, it was to realise that there was _always_ something more than what you can simply see. He often reminded Powell of the brief time he spent in Tibet, learning the ways of Buddhism. 

Powell, on the other hand was somewhat sceptical when it came to religions. At least that was the case _now._ Before he attained immortality he had attended the sermons at church, stayed at midnight mass and all manner of assorted rituals, as befitted your average farm hand and soldier. 

_But_ now _what was the point in believing that Christ gave his life for us, although_ we _were the ones who had him executed, only for him to be resurrected shortly after because of_ our _sins. And the point of that was . . .?_

Fortunately, his time with Vicenzo had been well spent. Most of it, though, was based around his education as he had received little in the way of schooling back on the farm. With his newly found fountain of knowledge, he had begun to philosophise about various topics and _tried_ to actually win his arguments . . . 

"What would be the _point_ in believing in Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who was gifted with eternal life and the power to right all wrongs _if_ people like us roam the land?" He gestured at the empty air that was beside the table edge. "Just think about it. If _he_ was the Son of God and immortal _because_ of that fact then does that not make _us_ the _children of God._ " 

Vicenzo sighed, shook his head, and took a deep sip of the coffee. "You're missing the point, Marcus." 

"Am I?" He reached over for his cup. "I thought the whole point of God worship was to believe in something greater than oneself. Surely that one does not apply to us. I mean, what could possibly be greater than an army of soldiers that could not die?" 

"Talk like that costs lives." Vicenzo cradled his cup in his hands. "Many, many generals have said that and believed it too. I'm sure you've heard of Alexander the Great . . . Darius . . ." 

_Yeah, but only because I've been travelling with you._

Powell was stunned. "You mean . . ." 

Vicenzo nodded. "So you see . . . there is still much you need to be taught, even if our time together has no doubt past that of a mortal lifetime. You need to remember that simply because you can outlive most people it does not make you better than them. Only older." 

Powell had received this and similar lectures time and again over the last fifty years, and he knew when to give up. "Yes, and the difference between the wise man and the fool is that wise man learns from his mistakes." 

He smiled. "Exactly." 

It was shortly after that comfortable lull, that a small group of drably dressed Spaniards barged into the café and began shouting. 

"Do you people tire of the way you have been oppressed? Of how your voices are no longer heard by the pompous _diplomats_ who seem to be taking over?" 

In a sense, the words of these boorish hooligans had a point. For about three or four months now, French troops sent in by Napoleon to quell the so-called uprising between the two distinct factions that had recently emerged in Spanish politics. 

This group appeared to be on the Portuguese side of things. These troop movements that theoretically were going to solve all their problems offended them so long as they were allowed free passage to Portugal. Powell could see their anger: he had fought against a Parliament that threatened to destroy its King, and these people wanted to fight against the invading force that had killed their King. 

Vicenzo, on the other hand had warned Powell of interfering with the political affairs of mortals and had advised against taking sides in such a pivotal moment in the war. 

One of the waiting staff approached the hooligan and whispered something in his ear. 

"We will not leave. Not until we hear answers from the masses. We shall be heard." 

Powell rolled his eyes and leaned over to whisper into Vicenzo's ear. "I know we're not _supposed_ to meddle in the affairs of mortals . . . but I get the feeling that this bunch are going to cause trouble." 

The Italian nodded sagely and rose from his seat. He quickly counted that there were five of them, and six patrons in the café. He carefully slid his hand down to his scabbard. 

The tallest and dirtiest of the offending group stared at Vicenzo. "You have something to say?" 

Vicenzo sneered at him. "Of course I do. But I would have preferred not to with the likes of you." 

The man's thick eyebrows met to form a v shape as he frowned, he turned to face the crowd once again. "This is exactly why we need to rise ourselves above this system of oppression." He gestured toward the immortal. "People like _him_ think that they can crush us like the bugs they believe us to be. We must – " 

Both immortals rolled their eyes into the backs of their heads. 

"How can you people listen to such madmen?" Vicenzo interjected. 

An evidently gullible patron of the café also stood. "Why should we not?" 

The leader folded his arms across his chest and faced the Italian. 

Powell realised that this must be the time to intervene. He now realised that things could get real ugly real soon if these anarchists were not stopped. 

"Why not? Well here's a reason – just _look_ at this man." Marcus stood and gestured toward the filthy rabble. "Does he _look_ like somebody who could lead you? The only reason _he_ is battling against diplomacy and free speech is that he lacks the talent and drive to succeed. So he thinks that if he can drive everybody against that which prevents men like him from gaining power, he will gain some _real_ power." He faced the leader. "Is that not so?" 

Vicenzo was impressed. Unfortunately, the anarchist was not. His face had flushed an angry red, and his hand had dropped to his belt. "How dare you! I will have you know that _we_ fight against this oppression because _we_ can see it. We know that if we do not take action soon, then the French shall never leave and our King can never be avenged. Obviously you cannot relate to this, English." He signalled to his four companions. "Perhaps we should show you?" 

_Damn. I know interference is not our way, but this lot are turning violent and I think I pushed them over the edge. No matter, I'm sure that the authorities will thank us for dealing with these troublemakers._

Vicenzo and Powell nodded toward each other and bolted for the door. The Spanish thugs stood fast in an attempt to block their passage. However, as they did so each reached into their belts and withdrew wicked looking knives. 

The immortals ducked into crouching positions and skidded themselves across the floor with one leg outstretched. A look that combined confusion with surprise blemished the visages of their foes. 

Three of the anarchists had toppled over and where making vain attempts to stand, while the remainder poised their weapons to strike the prone immortals. 

_Now that the odds are relatively even._

Powell brought himself back into his crouching position and planted a kick into the chest of the thug, who had now dropped his weapon and was forced to stagger backwards. Taking advantage of his off-balance foe, Powell leapt from his crouch so that he was now standing and introduced his fist into his opponent's face. 

As his foe fell to his knees, cradling his nose, Powell entertained the prone thugs with a dazzling display of street fighting, rendering their short attention spans useless, as they were faded into unconsciousness. 

While the British immortal dealt with the easy prey, Vicenzo squared off against the leader. Continually ducking and weaving, his enemy had little chance of successfully striking him. Before long, the anarchist was becoming tired of trying to hit Vicenzo's mesmerising dance of evasion. 

That was when he took the advantage. Vicenzo instantly halted and grabbed the leader's wrist while he remained in his dazzled stupor. Twisting it sharply to the left, he dropped the knife and grunted as Vicenzo brought his knee into his chest. He bent double and the Italian seized his chance of victory by kicking him in the head. 

Almost in slow motion, the anarchist fell onto his back and lay still, his pained expression gazing at the café ceiling. 

Both immortals stared at each other. Vicenzo took the lead and addressed the crowd, who by now were staring slack-jawed at the spectacle before them. 

For once, Vicenzo was lost for words. "As you can see . . . these . . . people . . . they . . ." He turned to Powell and whispered, "I don't think they're buying it." 

"Would you?" 

"Good point, English." 

The pair made for the door as one member of the crowd began to heckle them. "Stop them! Somebody stop those men! Thugs! Brutes! Hooligans!" 

* * *

Next, Parts 8-14   
Back to the Refuge 

© 2000   
Please send comments to the author! 

08/27/2000 

Celtic Web Art 

* * *


	2. Part Two

Regrets Parts 8-14 by Stephen Gunnell

_Marcus Powell: Crusader  
Regrets_

By Stephen Gunnell   
  
---  
  
**Part 8**

London, England   
December, 2000 

The alley _was_ quite dark and dingy. The perfect location for the type of shooting that Peterson was already forming in his mind's eye. He eyed the walls carefully and felt their dampness. 

Speaking into his radio. 'Peterson is on location and requesting permission to investigate further, over.' 

_I do not like the way this is panning out. New Year's Eve – it's not as if we don't have enough doom-sayers on our hands that we have to have a new faction rising. But the questions are who are they and what do they want? Why risk using an automatic weapon tonight?_

I'll tell you why, because we are stretched to our limits dealing with the raucous drunks. They thought they would get away before anybody could arrive. Let's hope they're wrong and their target is alive. No way there's going to be any witnesses to this. 

'Acknowledged, Peterson. Proceed with caution, over.' 

He clipped the radio back onto his belt and reached for the truncheon that was slung there. 

_Just in case._  
  
**Part 9**

_This is it, Ilias. Pull yourself together. Either you're going to help Powell or you're not. Which is it to be?_

Kofidis took a deep inhalation of chilled London air and plunged his hands deep into his pockets. He felt the flick-knife he had stashed there in the event that something like this may just happen to him. 

Especially after yesterday's phone call. 

He could remember it clearly. Almost as though it was a video playing in his brain that continually pictured that day . . .   
  
**Part 10**

London, England   
28th December, 2000 

Kofidis had got himself into trouble. Okay, so _that_ was not unusual – he was always getting into some scrape or another. That was a requirement for his line of work. 

And his line of work relied on information. Notably that of other people. Especially when it was supposed to be _secret_ information. 

This time was different, though. This time he pressed on his informant that little bit too hard. 

He handed the little man a wad of notes and leaned over to his ear. 'Now what about the shipping. That missing cargo. Remember?' 

The greasy man stuffed the wad into the back pocket of his ripped jeans and whispered back, 'Doom-sayers.' He reclined against the seat and took a long draught from his pint glass. 

Kofidis was confused. 'Doom-sayers? Don't talk in goddamn riddles, Grease. What the hell are they?' 

'Check the time o' year, Ilias. Loads reckon 's gonna be the end soon. Hope not, otherwise I'd better spend this quick.' He flashed a dirty smile. 

'Terrorists?' 

'Something like that, but this lot are more like the anarchists we 'ad way back.' 

'So what do they want? Power? Recognition? What?' 

'They call themselves the Cry of the Oppressed, or summink like that. They want rid o' the bigwigs who run things.' Grease leaned forward to Kofidis's ear again. 'More an' likely there jus' lazy ex-pol's reckonin' they can run things better an' anybody else jus' cos they lost their chance.' 

'And the cargo? Where does that come into this?' 

'Weapons.' 

The Greek's face became shrouded with apprehension. He hated guns. Guns and people that used them liked to injure and they liked to kill. Guns were not a good combination for a survivor. 

The informant leaned back again and finished his pint. 'Don't look too pleased with your answer. Sorry, no refunds.' 

'I wouldn't bother. But you'd better be wrong this time.' 

' 'Ave I been before?' 

Kofidis swore under his breath. 'What do they want them for? Apart from killing, I mean.' 

Grease swished the remnants of his drink around the pint glass before replying, as if he were reading into their futures like the gypsy and her tealeaves. 'A hit.' Now he stared intently at Kofidis. 'I don't know who or where or how. Okay.' 

Kofidis was enticed. _Perhaps,_ if he played his cards right he could not only snare the suppliers but also their employers, he slipped another couple of notes under the table. 'What do you say, my friend. For old times sake . . . how about telling me the what . . .?' 

The contact shook his head and did not even make a move toward the notes. 

'Say . . . remember back in '97 when you - ' 

His face darkened as an invisible shadow fell across it. Grudgingly, he accepted the notes and crammed them in with the rest of his stash. 'I remember. Don't say I don't pay off me debts. But after this – no more. Promise me, Ilias. This lot mean business.' 

The Greek nodded eagerly. 

'I'm only tellin' you once. No repeats. Got it?' Once Ilias had nodded in the affirmative, he continued. 'A guy is gonna get it . . . someone important . . .' he trailed off and stared at the dirty floor. 'And this lot are prepared to total _anyone_ or _thing_ to do it. I really don't know who it is . . . but I _do_ know that this lot are somethin' like them anarchists so it's probably gonna be a pol or a suit. Take your pick, but just remember that this lot have resources. Bloody effective ones an' all.' He stood, dumped the pint glass on the table and loped through the doors. 

Leaving Kofidis to ponder and re-evaluate his importance in the current scheme of things.   
  
**Part 11**

Madrid, Spain   
Spring, 1809 

'Can . . . we . . . stop . . . now?' The Englishman panted, leaning his exhausted body against a whitewashed building and bent double, placing his hands against each knee. 

His rather fitter companion drifted to a halt and jogged back. 'I suppose we could.' He took a cautious glance behind him. 'Doesn't look like they've followed us.' 

' . . . Good . . .' Powell barely managed to draw enough breath to continue. 'You'd have thought that . . . being immortal . . . undying . . . that you'd . . . have the stamina for it.' 

Vicenzo kept jogging. 'Why should we? We're no different from the mortals except that every wound heals.' Then his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. 'Unless we lose our head.' 

'Yeah. But . . . I can still . . . think it all the same . . . can't I?' 

'Go ahead. Belief is one of the driving forces of the world around us. Without it, nobody would have any power at all.' 

The two retired to the villa Vicenzo and he we were staying at with a man named Pedro Velarde. Apparently, a friend of Paulo's since a few years back who also seemed to owe him a rather large favour. 

Or so it appeared. 

At the time, Powell had inquired as to why, when they had first met, they did not just battle and take Vicenzo's or Powell's quickening, to which the Italian had replied: 'There is more to the Game than just the accumulation of quickenings. 

'One must remember that if there is one constant in this life it is death, something that the mortals keep at the forefront of their thoughts. It keeps them in the present rather than contemplating their next move carefully and becoming complacent as we have become. 

'Imagine the Romans. If they had not become decadent and complacent, then perhaps they may still rule. However, like us, they thought they were more than the sum of their parts. 

'If we forget that we are only immortal in body _not_ in soul then we shall simply cease to be. We shall think ourselves as gods and treat others as our subjects. That was not why we are what we are. 

'English, we are immortal. That much we can be sure of. But in our hearts we are still fragile human beings capable of emotion. That was why I did not kill you. He posed no threat to me, the immortals, or anybody, so why on Earth should I have challenged him?' 

'But that still does not quite explain your relationship with Velarde.' 

'Very true, English. But you see the key to understanding is in a term that we call analogy. By relating one thing to another we learn to better understand the world around us. 

'Velarde, like yourself was a soldier. We met under rather . . . tenuous circumstances early on in his career. We solved our petty differences and became trusted companions . . . until our paths drifted apart by the way of things. Does that answer your question?' 

Powell had replied at the time. 'In a way . . . I suppose so.' Vicenzo's analogy-littered explanations had begun to turn irritating on the young immortal forcing him to simply agree instead of battling to the bitter end and seeing out each arguments futile entirety. 

Powell had become agitated now. Vicenzo had been gone for almost three hours now. He claimed that he was going to meet a contact of his who may be able to identify the anarchists whom they were forced to assault in the café that short while ago. 

He stood at the balcony basking in the spring sun and felt the cool breeze against his cheek. He raised the goblet to his lips and felt the sweet yet slightly bitter taste of the wine. 

If there was one thing that Marcus had learnt since meeting Vicenzo, it was that beauty truly was in the eye of the beholder. To him, the wine was nothing more than the luxury of nobles, but to Vicenzo it was like an art form. He carefully sniffed and supped each and every claret he consumed. To the Italian, wine was a pleasure that was like the sun: radiant and beautiful with every ray. 

What was beautiful to one could easily be hideous to another. That was where things began to become complicated. It was at that point that the fine lines that differentiated between the simple concepts of "good", "bad", "beauty", and "ugliness" became blurred. It was all quite confusing for the young immortal. 

Before dying for the first time he had thought that life was about serving one's King and country with honour and distinction. 

Then he met Stewarts on the battlefield and everything he had ever known and believed had been destroyed for all eternity. Stewarts had shown him the pettiness of self and the art of survival. Although he now realised that Stewarts had only taught him enough so that he would not have gone insane with his new power and survive with the basic instinct for survival that all mortals are born with. However, Stewarts had remembered that there may come a time when one must face ones own friends and stop them from doing what you know is wrong. 

That had been why Stewarts had never formalised his training. He had known that if he allowed Powell to learn proper swordplay, then one day he might become more adept than he might be and thus become a threat. Without the training he would pose no threat and be far easier to dispatch should the need arise. 

_No matter how many times I think that, I still cannot believe it. Brian was a doctor. He saved lives, not ended them. This time Vicenzo must be wrong._

After meeting Vicenzo, he had discovered that there was more to life than the petty acquisition of profit. He could win the prize. That had intrigued him, he could win the ultimate gift that anyone could ever win in any game, and all he had to do was survive. 

He thought it quite ironic that Stewarts had taught him how to survive and that knowledge was exactly what he needed to know if he were to survive the Game. Combining it with Vicenzo's training he felt that now there was no way he could lose. 

He knew everything he needed to know. 

'Marcus?' 

Powell jumped. He had not expected Paulo back so soon. Well that was not necessarily true, he would not have admitted it aloud be he was actually quite worried about him. 

He turned to face him. 

'Was I interrupting anything?' he asked. 

Shaking his head, 'No, I was just thinking.' The two adjourned into the living room, and Powell seated himself at the polished table. Placing his glass on it, he tried a different tactic, 'So what happened to you then? Thought for a moment I was going to have to go out looking for you.' He noted his sullen expression, 'Why the long face? Bad news?' 

The Italian leant on the table and looked at his friend with an almost infinite melancholy in his eyes. 'I was talking with a friend. About those anarchists from the café.' Powell nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from those endless hazel pits of sadness. 'I asked about who they were – we already knew what they wanted, they told us that much in the café. Apparently they call themselves the Voice of the People. They speak out against the so-called oppression and claim themselves to be that cry. In a nutshell, they want rid of the French occupational force.' 

'We can't really blame them for that, but even so, how does that bother us? We're not supposed to meddle in the affairs of mortals, right. So we'd betted just let this one drop, okay.' He hated to say those words but if he was to become the wise man that Vicenzo so often spoke of, then he needed to let go of his previous ideals and grab hold of a new philosophy. 

Somehow the sadness intensified into an eternity of sorrow upon the utterance of those painful words. ' _That_ is the problem. A man named Luis Mendes leads them. He calls himself 'Mallos', leader of this sorry bunch.' 

Folding his arms, 'I'm still waiting to find out when it becomes our problem.' Powell was not impressed thus far. It seemed to him that Vicenzo was making the problem sound more complicated than it really was. 

For the first time in their long relationship, Powell thought he had actually spotted some signs of irritation in his comrade. 'Listen, English: Mallos _is one of us!_ He has our power – which makes him our problem. He is directly meddling with the thought patterns of those we are sworn to conceal ourselves from. He must be stopped.' 

'So do you plan to do that?' Powell was not convinced. 'Why take this mans head? True, he is interfering with the affairs of mortals, but an entire movement of men he had probably worked to brainwash is also protecting him! Besides, its not as if his cause is by any means unworthy – he _is_ fighting an unlawful oppression, but he _has_ violated one of our oaths. But when all is said and done, how do you plan on battling all of his followers? Will you fight them all, or do you have a new master plan?' 

Now there was anger burning in those eyes, their melancholy banished for the moment. 'He must be stopped.' Vicenzo repeated, finally collapsing into a nearby chair. 'But _how_ is another matter . . .' 

Seeing the twisting, confusing pattern of emotions that were raging within his comrade, Powell offered some unusually sage advice. 'Remember those rules for combat you taught me? Surely they're applicable . . .' 

Inspiration replaced the fire in his eyes. 'Of course!' He rose with the speed of man possessed and began to frantically rush around the villa searching all manner of supposedly useless equipment . . . most of it being clothing. 

'Wait!' Powell implored. 'Don't keep it to yourself – what's the plan.' 

The Italian muttered something about there being very little time and about how he would understand if he could just be quiet and trust him. 

'I'm sorry, Paulo. You cannot expect me to join you on this suicidal head–hunting expedition without even an inclination as what the hell our plan is.' 

Vicenzo had neared the door with a rucksack packed with all sorts of interesting tools, and slung over his shoulder was his scabbard – complete with rapier. 

'Then don't.' 

The door slammed closed and Vicenzo was gone. 

_Don't worry about it, he's the best there is – no way this Mallos character could beat him. For Paulo it's going to be a piece of cake._

Then why do I feel like that was the last time we were going to speak . . .?   
  
**Part 12**

London, England   
December, 2000 

Kofidis was resolute now. This time there was no turning back. Around that corner – that was where it all happened. 

Sweat dribbled down his brow. Wiping it away, he cautiously approached the turning, hugging the shadows in a vain attempt to be as invisible as they are. 

Peering round the corner he could make out the figure of the Spanish man. 

_I'm sure he was called Mendes, anyhow there he is . . . standing over Powell. What the hell is that in his hand? A sword?_

He crept closer to try and get a better look at the sword. It looked like one of those swords he remembered seeing in those old swashbuckling hokum flicks. What were they called? Cutlasses weren't they? 

But what was an influential ally of the Cry doing waving a sword over the unmoving bullet ridden corpse of a P.I. 

A voice pierced the odd silence. 'Now it is time to complete our unfinished business, English.' He raised the cutlass in an offensive stance and looked prepared to bring it down on the body – hard. 'There can be only one.' 

Kofidis's throat went dry. 

_What kind of a man has you shot to ribbons and then cuts you in two with a sword? I've got to stop him. Nobody, not even that P.I., deserves to have their body defiled in such a heinous manner._

He plucked up what little courage he possessed and shouted at the man, 'Stop!' 

_Can't you do better than that? Do you really think that is going to stop this kind of killer?_

'Why pick on a corpse?' The man lowered his sword and impaled the Greek with an evil stare. Gulping, Kofidis continued, 'I mean, _look_ at him . . .' He gestured toward the body. 'He's dead already. Now me . . . I'm alive . . . _and_ I've just seen everything. So why not add another murder to your list, I'm sure it's quite long already?' 

_Now that was stupid. This is not a game. When you ask a psychotic who has already killed whether or not he would like to kill you as well, don't expect a pleasant reply._

He made the sign of the cross on his chest. 

The murdering psychotic Spaniard approached and pointed his cutlass at Kofidis. 'Did Lex not pay you enough? All you had to do was make sure he arrived – nothing more.' The sweating Greek nodded his head. 'So _why_ return? Because _now_ I'm going to have to keep your silence _but_ I already know that you cannot be bought . . . so how can I keep your mouth shut . . .?' 

'I had to see him . . . nobody deserved what you were going to do.' Now he realised that these were going to be his final words, he found a strange comfort in it and delved deep into himself and lashed out at the Spaniard with all his verbal might. 'Why maim a corpse? What kind of a sicko _are_ you? What kind of a man shoots somebody into a bloodied smear and then decides to go at the body with a sword? Why not pick on someone who can fight back – huh?' 

Mendes smiled in such a sadistic way that somehow, Kofidis _knew_ that what was to come would be sure to end his suffering. Permanently. 'As you wish.' 

The cutlass raised; Kofidis gritted his teeth against the blow, knowing that his body would not survive the outcome of this painful turn of events. 

_I can't die. Not now. I'm nowhere near being that millionaire I dreamt I would become._

I can't die. 

I won't die.   
  
**Part 13**

Madrid, Spain   
Spring, 1809 

Powell cursed himself. He should never have let Paulo venture out and challenge Mallos, Mendes, or whatever his name was. Now he had the feeling that this was spelling the end of their friendship. 

_So why am I pursuing him? He's supposed to be my friend so why am I going behind his back?_

Because he can't take down an entire organisation on his own. 

Can he? 

It took awhile, but Powell eventually tracked him to what looked to a modest villa; not overly decorated to signify opulence, but sufficiently tasteful to be respected in the aristocratic community. 

Scouting the perimeter, he noticed that two burly men lay unconscious by the partially open gates. 

_Looks like Paulo's handiwork._

Checking the pulses, he discovered that they were still alive and stepped in through the gates, approaching the villa. At the door to which he spotted two more comatose guards and tried the door. 

_Open. What was that I mentioned earlier? Did I really doubt his skills that much?_

Stepping through the threshold, he heard the faint clashing of steel upon steel. 

_And they're still battling. What was I worried about?_

A sickly feeling crept along his spine and raised the hairs on the nape of his neck shortly before he felt a crushing pressure against the back of his skull. 

Whirling round, he saw a figure swathed entirely in darkness wielding a long black truncheon. Rubbing the back of his head, Powell aimed a kick at the chest of his masked assailant. 

Staggering backwards, the attacker attempted to steady himself. Seeing that his foe had removed its attention from its target, Powell reached forward and grabbed the figure by the shirt and hurled the body against the wall. 

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' Thrusting his head into the figures face and removing the mask. Then astonished to find a cluster of dark black locks of hair falling onto the angered female face marred somewhat by the bloodied and broken nose. 'What?' 

The woman simply spat in his face. 

Powell slammed her against the wall again, wiping the spittle from his cheek and repeated his question in a more violent and threatening tone of Spanish. 

'I would rather die, English pig.' She aimed another mouthful of gob at him. 

Marcus was prepared this time and raised a hand to the woman's neck, choking her on whatever phlegm she was thinking to hurl at his visage. 'I'll ask you one more time: what is going on?' 

She brought a knee into his groin. 

Dropping to his knees, clutching his groin, he groaned, 'What the hell . . .?' 

'I'd have rather killed you outright, _English,_ but our leader is not concerned with you.' She picked up her club. 'Instead, I'm to beat you and leave you . . . as an example to the _English pigs_ that we Spanish will not surrender our glory so easily.' She kicked him in the stomach. 'Then . . . once your example can be seen and remembered, we shall revenge ourselves against those _French dogs_ that also thought they could escape our vengeance.' 

Curling into a fetal position on the floor, Powell felt the bruising regenerate, lessening the pain somewhat. He really wished _that_ was part of the package in this business. He waited for her approach. 

The club-like truncheon raised and fell. Her expression changed from one of sadistic glee to one of twisted agony with a hint of surprise. 

Powell stood and withdrew his sabre form the woman's stomach, cleaning it on her clothing; he glanced down at her twitching, bleeding form. 

_Such a waste. She could have been so much more, yet I had to do this. I who cannot die must kill if I am to survive. The universe truly is a marvellously ironic place in which to live._

Turning the dying woman over, he whispered, 'Forgive me, but your kind of evil must be stopped.' 

Even though the life was draining from her eyes, she still had enough energy left within her to spark off one last retort. 'Only once _your_ kind has been, can we.' 

_A pity. All she had left in her dying moments were vengeful thoughts. Now I know how Paulo must feel. Imagine if people like her were like us._

Then he realised why Vicenzo had to kill Mallos. 

Hurrying toward the sounds of battle, Powell spotted the pair duelling in the rear courtyard. Taking a cautious eye to his surroundings, he quickly noticed that there were masked figures lurking in the bushes and trees. 

_Dammit. That lot are armed with crossbows._

Watching the battle intensely, he noted that although Vicenzo parried each of Mallos' thrusts, the somewhat larger Italian always responded with far more effective strikes and the Spaniards shirt was already soaked with blood and sweat. 

_Why does Mallos not thrust with his full strength? He always seems to pull back at the last minute. Why? Why not cause lethal damage to your foe . . . unless you were trying to herd him somewhere._

Then he realised that the two were engaged in something that vaguely resembled a dance. Only a far more fatal version. Mallos seemed to be leading his foe closer and closer to an archway. 

Sneaking around the duel and evading the lurking assassins, he carefully approached the archway. 

_Now what is so significant about this arch. Why lure him here?_

That would be why. 

He held in his hand a length of wire that had been attached to the posts, not particularly strong, but surely enough for a man to lose his balance if his attention were focused elsewhere. 

Returning his analytical gaze to the snipers, he noted that each one had a clear view of the arch from each of their vantage points. 

_So that's his game is it? Lure the superior warrior into a trap so you can then have him shot to death by quarrels and then take his head while his body is busy regenerating. Clever, but dishonourable. I have to warn him, I can't let Paulo be murdered in such a disgraceful manner – I could never live with myself. After all, it was my fault that he left on his own. If I hadn't been so concerned with myself I would have realised that sometimes one has to do what is right and not what is expected._

Nobody can expect the immortals to skulk in the shadows forever. Some of us are bound to step out into the light. Those are the ones we need to be careful of. They are the people who can change everything. Problem is, Mallos is one of those men and he is on the wrong side. 

'Paulo!' Marcus yelled, desiring nothing more than to alert his friend to the impending tragedy. 

Vicenzo paused a moment, distracted by the cry of his friend. 'Wh —' 

Powell never heard the completion of this sentence as it was terminally cut short by the cutting swipe of Mallos' cutlass. 

Marcus Powell screamed. 

'In the end,' Vicenzo's head flew across the courtyard and splattered wetly against the paving stone, 'there can be only one.' 

An oppressive heaviness crushed Powell's chest as Vicenzo's corpse slumped to the ground and became almost animated by arcs of lightening that began to exude from his remains. 

Mallos grinned at the Englishman; 'I will come for you and finish this.' Bolts of lightening surged through the corpse and into his with such ferocious strength that Mallos twitched with every strike until eventually he fell to his knees, dropping his sword. 

_Vicenzo's quickening . . . gone to a power hungry psychotic . . . no . . ._

Although stunned by the death of his friend, Powell also realised that he _must_ escape if he is to ever have _any_ chance of avenging this heinous deed. 

'Count on it.' Powell rushed Mallos as he recovered from the quickening and kicked the cutlass far out of reach. 

Grunting, Mallos fell to the floor with a thud as the last of the bolts sparked against him and cursed himself, Vicenzo, Powell, the British, the Italian, anyone he could think of that would ease his pain right now. 

'Dammit, English! This score _shall_ be settled and an example _will_ be made. I guarantee it.' 

Powell did not even stop to listen. 

He ran. 

Out of the villa. 

Out of what _had been_ his life.   
  
**Part 14**

London, England   
December 2000 

A survival instinct concealed somewhere in one of the more primal regions of Kofidis's brain echoed one word: run. It repeated it over and over, but his legs simply refused to move. It was as though his cerebrum had divorced itself from his motor functions. 

_Run. Run. Run. Run._

However, his legs remained inert. 

_If you don't run now, you won't ever run again._

Petrified, Kofidis stood stock still, resembling an incredibly realistic statue. Although Mendes brought his blade down swiftly, Kofidis perceived the manoeuvre to have been performed in slow motion. 

_May God forgive me for my sins. I tried to be a good man._

Something replaced the fear that had once been present in his eyes. All Mendes could see in them was acceptance. 

Kofidis knew that this was his time. Nothing could change that now. 

Yet Mendes saw something else in those eyes. Like a mirror he could see a reflection of what he once was steadfast and resolute; his mind clouded with the misperception that he alone could and _would_ change the world. 

And he would. 

This time. 

The cutlass halted inches away from the Greek's breast. 

Surprise shone in those eyes. 

_What the hell . . .?_

'Nobody move.' Yelled a new voice, with the authority that only comes from the possession of a badge. 'Everybody stay _exactly_ where you are.' 

The footsteps advanced down the alley, echoing in the tense silence. The cutting knife-edge of a flashlight pierced the darkness, swaying from side to side causing mysterious shapes to flicker across the dingy walls. 

'Don't waste your chance like he did.' Mendes hissed at Kofidis, gesturing with his cutlass at Powell's inert body. Turning, he fled down the alleyway, mirroring the path Kofidis once followed in order to flee and later return to the scene of carnage. 

The beam became more intense until it played across the statue-like Kofidis. It approached him and he wished that he could identify the figure if only he would stop shining that damn light in his face. 

'Turn that damn thing off!' Kofidis yelled, shocking himself with his newly found confidence. 

'Just who the hell are you to be giving the orders?' exclaimed the torch wielder. 

'Kofidis. I called the cops ages ago, you sure as hell want to be one.' 

The light blinked off. 'Well you're in luck, Mr Kofidis. Back-up'll be here soon – where'd the killer go?' 

Dumbly, he pointed. 

The light flickered back on and began to sway from side to side as it ran down the alley. 'Stay here, I'll be back soon.' 

_Yeah, right. With that psycho ahead of him, he don't stand a chance._

Shrugging, Kofidis dismissed the police officers foolhardiness due to inexperience and willed himself to move once more. 

Lurching toward the corpse, he marvelled at the sheer damage that must have been done to Powell; bullets had pockmarked the wall behind him, shattering the brickwork which had glistened with the blood and gore that came with the bullets as they had exited the unfortunate detective. 

Kofidis had to force down the bile that was climbing up and out of his throat if he was going to be able to do what he knew he _had_ to do if he was to accomplish the plan that he had concocted during his run here. 

Crouching down, Kofidis turned the body and almost lost control of the vomit in his throat. Swallowing the bitter fluids, he grimaced and continued. 

Although he already knew that he was called Powell and he knew that he was a detective _that_ was the limit of his knowledge pertaining to the now deceased figure before him. 

_Better get it over with before I defile his body further by mingling my own puke with the rotting garbage and his bodily fluids. Now where's his wallet . . . that's bound to have some form of ID in it . . . just so I know who to contact . . . don't want the cops to do it. It'd sound better coming from someone who knew him . . . not from another faceless cop caring only for procedure . . ._

Reaching into Powell's jacket pocket, Kofidis extracted a dirtied black leather wallet. 

_Jackpot!_

Undoing the clasp he suddenly felt an icy chill shoot up his spine. The hairs on the nape of his neck bristled. 

_What the . . ._

Uncontrollably, his head twitched directly to face Powell just in time to see a pair of lifeless eyes reanimate. 

Kofidis instantly filled his lungs with a huge inhalation of stench-filled air and felt his blood replace itself with adrenaline. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air as he groped for the correct words that would aptly describe this event. 

'Shit . . .' was all he could manage while his eyes dilated so far they looked ready to explode with fear, shock, surprise, or all of the above. 

Then a hand shot out from the supposed corpse and gripped his arm with the supernatural strength that could only have come from the grave. 

Kofidis collapsed. 

**THE END**

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Previous, Parts 1-7   
Back to the Refuge 

© 2000   
Please send comments to the author! 

08/27/2000 

Celtic Web Art 

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